The Worst Nights
by Liveforthemoments
Summary: Jack tells himself he was right to leave the island. Some nights, he even believes it. JackSawyer oneshot


The Worst Nights

Jack Sheppard/ James 'Sawyer' Ford

PG-13

I do not own Lost or any of the characters.

---

Jack Sheppard always told himself that he did the right thing, leaving the island. He told himself that when the chance came and they all took it, all of them who survived, that anyone would have done the same and that it was only right and only fair and that he was never happy there anyway.

Most times he can tell himself that and the thought will go away. Most times he can continue working, because he's still a doctor since it's all he knows and all he is and all he's ever been.

Even the few times that reassurance isn't enough, he usually find all the reassurance he needs in a bottle of Jack Daniel's, somewhere about the middle. So life is good.

Mostly.

---

Except sometimes, late at night when there's no-one and nothing but the memories, he sits at his window and stares at the orange haze glowing above the city, tempering the dark of night with artificial day. Those nights he misses the stars desperately, he misses the heat, the dark, the freedom.

Those nights are the good nights, the nights when the thought of the freedom is as far as he gets.

---

The bad nights, he thinks about Sawyer.

The bad nights, Jack remembers how one day Sawyer had 'walked into a tree', how he'd returned to camp with blood soaking into the rough blue material of his shirt and stubbornly declared that he was fine and that he didn't need help from no damn do-gooder doctor anyway and how he'd crumpled unconscious to the sand as he'd tried to walk away.

He remembers how he'd picked the man up and found him far lighter than he should have been. He can still almost feel the stinging rain of the tropical storm that had lashed the island that day and meant the tents were sodden and the cave was packed. He recalls carrying Sawyer until his knees threatened to give out and finding a little cave just big enough to treat him and just light enough to see and just near enough to the camp that he was able to leave the man alone for a moment.

He's never managed to shake the memory of sprinting through that jungle to snatch a few of the dry blankets and what medical supplies he had left and the way his heart had beat so violently against his chest that he could hear nothing else.

Neither can he stop remembering how the cut had been deep enough to make him wince and how it had stretched the full way across Sawyer's chest and that even as he'd stitched it up the conman had not woken. He remembers how his heart sank when he'd placed a cool hand across the man's forehead and found the skin clammy and hot to the touch.

---

He never found out whether Sawyer was delirious when he finally stirred, when he'd sat up suddenly straight, eyes wide and terrified, and leaned into Jack, shivering. To this day he doesn't know why Sawyer had suddenly looked up, that angry spark that always shone in his eyes twinkling, and kissed Jack hard on the mouth.

He does know that he should have pushed the man away, should have told him that he wasn't thinking straight, should have ended whatever they had before it had begun, but Sawyer's lips had been soft and warm and insistent and the conman's calloused hands had been tracing patterns at the nape of his neck and when their lips had parted his eyelashes had fluttered butterfly kisses against Jack's cheekbones and stole his breath away and damned if he knows why but that was all it took.

---

Even on the bad nights, he can usually turn the memories off there.

He's found that the off switch usually lies right at the bottom of his seventh shot glass, so it's rare that he has to remember how he'd nursed Sawyer back to health and through the fever that had hit that night and how, though he wouldn't need all the fingers on one hand to count the number of times he'd seen the man scared, that night Sawyer had moaned in pain and held Jack's hand so tight he'd left bruises.

When Jack had wandered off into the grey dawn to fetch water, he'd returned to find Sawyer gone - he knows that he had felt worried and disappointed and somehow almost betrayed, but he is almost certain that he was never surprised.

The bruises on Jack's hand had faded through a myriad of rainbow shades to a resigned yellow before he saw Sawyer again. The conman had leaned out of his tent into the evening twilight, desperately fresh after the storm, and caught the doctor's eye. Jack had nodded, and forced himself to move on before he read to much into the way the Southerner's eyes sparkled.

The beach was near-deserted, the islanders still seeking refuge in the cave, so no-one witnessed Sawyer standing unsteadily, moving swiftly to catch up with the doctor, catching hold of his bruised hand and holding it almost too tight. Jack winced, and wished he hadn't. Sawyer noticed, and decided he rather liked Jack with bruises, and saw the way that Jack was biting on his lower lip, and kissed him hard enough to leave bruises there too. He told himself that the bruises were the only reasons, and then Jack whimpered and he decided that he didn't need a reason at all.

That night had ended with the two of them sprawled naked and intertwined in the same cave as the last time, with Sawyer's head on Jack's chest and Jack's bruised hand clutching Sawyer's hip and contented little smiles on both their faces.

---

Jack tries hard to keep himself from thinking about how, whenever anyone could see, they'd been just the same as always. For the longest time they had lived in their lies together as well, and each pretended that the other couldn't see. Jack acted as though Sawyer couldn't see the aching tension in every muscle of his body and the dark smudges under his eyes and the way his hands clenched into fists so tight that his whole body shook whenever the group came to him with yet another problem that he simply couldn't solve. Sawyer told himself that Jack didn't notice the nicotine withdrawl symptoms or the way the cut across his chest still ached or the fact that maybe being the outsider wasn't what he'd had in mind.

It wasn't too long before a one-time thing became a one-time a night at least thing and before too long, without acknowledging it or opening up or even talking much beyond the occasional helpless moan from Sawyer or those whimpering noises Jack would swear he didn't make, harsh bruising kisses became a little bit more gentle and less buttons got torn off their clothes and the odd time Jack could even walk without wincing in the morning. Jack's bruises started to fade away, and both pretended that they didn't notice.

---

The next part is what Jack only ever thinks about on the very worst nights, the nights when alcohol and Oxycodone and any pretty girl he can find aren't quite enough.

The worst nights, he thinks about the Others, about the capture and the cage and the way he heard Sawyer scream over that intercom like he never had before and the way those screams still echo in his dreams even on the good nights.

The worst nights, he sees the image of Sawyer and Kate naked together and Sawyer holding her far more gently and carefully than he'd ever held Jack like it's burned behind his eyes, and it makes his head spin with anger and betrayal and disappointment in his own stupidity even now.

Those nights, the thing he hates most is what he did next, how he risked everything to let them escape because he was devastated and numb and couldn't really bring himself to be angry at either of them because really he shouldn't have been surprised.

---

At least now he never remembers much about the weeks after that, not the capture nor the rescue nor the returning back to the beach. He does remember the hope, though, and the desperate desire to leave the island because there was nothing on it left for him. He tries not to think about that.

---

The only memory that really matters from the next weeks surfaces rather often. Jack had been walking past their cave, head spinning and eyes blank and going nowhere but keeping moving because it hurt less that way, when he'd heard a gasp in a voice he could have sworn he recognised. Against his better judgement and his instincts and just about everything else he'd crept into the cave and found Sawyer slumped against the wall. His legs were awkwardly splayed out and his breathing was uneven and he didn't seem to notice Jack's presence until the brunet cleared his throat.

Sawyer's head had snapped up to look at Jack and he'd furiously swiped his palms across his eyes, moving to leave, shivering, but he'd been stopped in his tracks by two words.

"I know." Jack had whispered, and Sawyer had frozen.

"Ain't like I never killed a man before, Doc." He'd offered, his voice broken and distraught and trying to sound flippant.

"What?" Jack remembers even now how his blood had run cold. "I'm talking about you _sleeping _with_ Kate_." He had snarled, dangerously closing to loosing it, and Sawyer had turned to face him with a grin that didn't even nearly meet his eyes.

"Jealous, Doc?" He teased, and Jack had drawn back a fist and punched him hard.

He had almost expected the answering slap and the kick to his knee, and he'd laughed, mocking. "Have to try harder than that." Sawyer had given a grunt of frustration, rising to the bait, and launched himself at Jack, the pair of them punching and scratching and kicking and each trying to cause as much pain as he could.

---

It had been a good ten minutes later that Jack had found himself straddling Sawyer's hips, pinning him down, the blonde bruised and battered and glaring furiously up at him. His shirt had been torn off his shoulders and his hair was falling over his eyes and a trickle of blood spilled from swollen lips.

Jack had known he looked little better but found himself unable to care, focusing instead on gasping air into his lungs. "You hurt me." He'd whispered the moment he could, pronouncing it slowly, deliberately. Leaning close to Sawyer to say the words, "I trusted you, and you hurt me. I don't know why, and I don't care, but I'm going to make you sorry."

He'd seen the surprising flash in the conman's eyes as the man turned his head away. "Think I ain't sorry?" He'd murmured, a few stray tears trickling into his hairline, and Jack had stared, incredulous. "You do whatever the Hell you want Doc, 'cos right now it don't really matter."

Sawyer had stared away as he said that, his voice flat and lonely and so much unlike the man he knew that Jack had slipped off him, sitting nearby instead.

"What happened, Sawyer?" He'd questioned gently, and Sawyer had shivered so hard that Jack had to make a real effort to quell his desire to put his arms around the man and hold him close and somehow make whatever was hurting him go away.

"I killed him." Sawyer had gasp-sobbed, eyes fluttering shut, "I killed him."

Jack had reached for the man's hand despite himself. "Who? Why?" He'd asked urgently, and Sawyer had squeezed his hand tight.

"The man who killed my parents." He'd whispered, and Jack had decided that explanation and betrayal and common sense be damned Sawyer needed him. He'd pulled the unresisting blonde into his arms, laying the pair of them down on the ground with his own body curled around Sawyer's, interlocking their fingers and tracing one thumb along the inside of the conman's wrist as his eyes fluttered shut. Jack had lain awake for hours, holding Sawyer as his sobs had faded away into fitful sleep.

---

The next morning, Jack had woken first and found Sawyer still beside him, the tear-tracks dried on his cheeks, curled as close to the doctor's body as he could go. These are memories he calls up often, worn like a well-thumbed book, these precious images of Sawyer peaceful and happy and waking up slowly to smile at him. Then the man had bitten uncertainly down on his own split lip and stared at Jack intently, leaving the doctor with the feeling that he had passed some sort of test when Sawyer leaned up kiss him. For the first time, the conman didn't seem to be trying to hurt him.

---

It still strikes Jack as odd that he never minds remembering the next weeks so much, because by this time he's usually so far gone that the bitterness of the bittersweet memories is lost on him.

He almost treasures the memories of nights spent in the cave and under the trees and so close to Sawyer that sometimes he'd almost felt they were merged together. He relishes recalling that indistinct time when something angry and dangerous and destructive had twisted into something peaceful and calming and gentle.

He remembers when he had begun to get to know James, not the conman or the outcast or the man who hurt and bruised him as though it were a game but the man Jack had seen cry once, who would just occasionally kiss him like he thought he would break and hold him like he'd seen Sawyer hold Kate and who had learned how to knead every line of tension out of Jack's body and when exactly he needed to do so.

It's funny that even when Sawyer became James in Jack's mind, he called him Sawyer aloud. Even when he'd become the one person Jack confided in and almost trusted and still fought with at least once a day over stupid, trivial things, even when the fights gradually became something for show because it felt safe to keep up the pretence (although everyone had been too wrapped up in their own lives and lies to notice much when both Sawyer and Jack began sleeping away from the beach), even then, he called him Sawyer.

Mostly.

There had been nights alone in the cave or on the hill when amidst those little trembling whimpering sounds that Jack still swears he didn't make the name slipped out, exhaled into the shuddering space between their lips that would have been too thin to fit much more than a word or moaned into Sawyer's hair or nuzzled stubbly-soft into the curve of his neck and shoulder.

It was after one of those nights, coiled together, intertwined in blissful sleep, that Jack had woken sharply with an aching fear in the pit of his stomach and Sawyer had stirred drowsily, staring at him in sleepy surprise.

"Go to sleep, Doc." He'd murmured, planting a soft, non-sexual kiss on the nape of the man's neck, and Jack has smiled and shook his head and dismissed it as nothing.

---

That was the day the ship came.

It had been Hurley who spotted it on the horizon and they'd already attracted attention so the huge vessel had dropped anchor and sent several of its lifeboats towards the beach by the time Sawyer and Jack even arrived near, oblivious.

Jack remembers this vividly, the last few moments before it all changed, when he'd walked through the jungle with Sawyer's hand slipped through his in the sunlight and the quiet and had felt so safe, so lucky, so happy.

He remembers how they had glimpsed the boat and how Sawyer had given a whoop of delight and hugged him and how he'd stood, uncertain, just for a moment. "We're going home, Doc!" Sawyer had laughed joyously, "We're going home!"

And every time, Jack wishes he'd said that he was already home.

---

What he did was laugh and run down the beach to where the boats were loading and make sure he didn't arrive at exactly the same time as Sawyer but that they ended up in the same one anyway, the last boat, with Desmond and Locke and Sayid and everyone else who knew deep down that they shouldn't really be leaving.

They sat together and laughed and talked and watched the island blend into the distance. Jack stroked his thumb across the inside of Sawyer's wrist where nobody could see and told himself he should be happy, should be relieved, should feel anything but afraid.

---

When they had reached the main craft they had been swept apart in a crowd of Navy men and Jack had been pushed forward as the leader to talk to the Captain; in between telling their story and medical checks and finding their way around the labyrinth inside the ship, they'd lost each other for a while.

That night Jack had realised that with the movement and the whir of the engines and without Sawyer beside him he couldn't sleep and had made his way up on deck, just to watch the island disappear and wonder why it saddened him to see it go. On the way back down to his cabin, lost in the uniform gray passageways, he'd glimpsed the shadow of two figures and approached, hoping to ask them where he was.

When he rounded the corner, though, he'd seen Sawyer and Kate with their lips locked and leaning against the wall and he'd stood, frozen, until Sawyer opened his eyes and saw him and made to move away; he'd shaken his head, furious tears welling in his eyes, and he'd run.

---

He hasn't seen Sawyer since, or any of the other survivors for that matter, and he tells himself that it's his own fault for trusting him after the first time and that he isn't lonely and that he isn't afraid.

Since six months ago, when he stopped really eating, he tells himself that he just lost his appetite and that not being able to hold Sawyer isn't killing him slowly and that it's normal not to be able to sleep at night.

He tells himself he's better off without him.

Some nights, he even tells himself he believes it.

---

The next morning, he wakes up early as always and heads to the hospital because he works two eight-hour shifts, six days a week now, and they let him because if nothing else he is still a very good doctor.

As soon as he enters the hospital a young receptionist rushes up to him, smiling, flirting. "Morning Dr. Sheppard." She grins, expertly flicking dyed blonde hair back over her shoulder.

He smiles back. "Morning, Emma. Got some patients for me to take care of?"

"It's not your usual but you're the first one here this shift, so we have a 37 year old white male at reception suffering from lacerations of the upper arm and a split lip..." She lowers her voice, conspirational, and whispers, "We think it was a pub fight, but he says he walked a tree."

Jack's mouth goes dry at the last words but he dismisses it quickly, nodding his thanks. "Name?"

"James Ford." Emma answers smoothly, and leaves with a wink and a smile.

Jack closes his eyes and tells himself that St. Sebastian's hospital Los Angeles is a long way from Tennessee and that there's no way its his Sawyer. No way at all.

---

When he gets to the reception area there's only one man who looks about the right age, standing up at the bay windows with his back to Jack and staring up at the sky. He almost thinks it's him, for a moment, because the man wears faded jeans and a navy T-shirt and old, dark sneakers. His hair is blonde and messy and his skin is tanned and seeing him makes Jack's heart rise to his throat, but he tells himself that it can't be.

It can't be.

"James Ford?" He asks, and the man turns around, half-smiling, and Jack's heart stops.

It can't be.

But it is.

---

The shock he feels is reflected in the man's face, his mouth now hanging open. "Jack?" He whispers, voice trembling but exactly the same, "That you?"

He isn't quite sure whether to say "Yes" or "No" or "Burn in Hell," but what comes out when his lips open is a very quiet "Let's get you stitched up." He turns and leads Sawyer to his office, his heart pounding and his head spinning and wondering what on Earth or under it he's supposed to do now.

---

As soon as the door closes on the corridor, Jack takes in his surroundings with a new eye, wondering how his companion must see them – dull and mostly grey and uncomfortably sterile, he supposes, but the room is pretty much home now.

With a sigh, he turns around to Sawyer.

"I'm sorry." The man blurts, to Jack's surprise, "I'm so, so sorry, but I never started it and it was Freckles that jumped me right before you turned up and I pushed her away right after and I been lookin' for you ever since but I never asked where you lived or worked 'cept Los Angeles and you ain't listed in the phone book so I been here for months now and I checked every damn hospital in the city and I couldn't find you."

His voice is almost hysterical and sincere like Jack's never heard it and the doctor almost believes him.

"Please." Sawyer whispers, exhausted, nothing else to say, and Jack nods slowly. "Ok." He answers, numb but somewhere under it unable to believe what he's saying, "Alright."

The next thing he knows, Sawyer is wrapped in his arms with his head on his shoulder and his entire frame shaking with what Jack is guessing is relief and tears are seeping onto the shoulder of Jack's pristine coat.

---

It takes a good half hour for Jack to finish stitching Sawyer up and find him a bed, saying it's to keep him under observation and not saying that it's because he's not sure he can deal with the man disappearing now. It takes seven more hours of working distracted because every time he close his eyes Sawyer's face drifts into his mind, split lip and tired smile and all, before his shift finally ends and they leave the hospital.

They drive back to Jack's apartment in silence and not a word is uttered until Jack opens the door to his flat and ushers Sawyer inside. "Don't they pay you for bein' a Doctor?" The man asks, staring around at the tiny kitchen/living room and the even smaller bedroom/bathroom, and Jack shrugs.

"Doc..." Sawyer starts, but Jack shakes his head sharply. "Want something to eat?" He asks, changing the subject, and the other man breaks into a grin that takes Jack straight back to the island, answering "Thought you'd never ask. Hey, guess what?"

Jack tips his head to one side, an impulsive smile playing about his lips. Sawyer waits until he sighs playfully. "Fine. What?" Jack mocks, and Sawyer chuckles. "Brother Desmond hooked me up with a job before he headed back to Bonnie Scotland, so now I'm a chef."

Jack's jaw drops in a mixture of surprise at Sawyer's words and shock at his abysmal approximation of a Scotch accent, and the Southerner tips back his head and roars with laughter.

"Hey." Jack chuckles, catching the man's left hand in his right and placing his free hand on the small of his back, "Enough of the laughing." Sawyer gives one last chuckle and rests their foreheads together, smiling.

"Missed ya." He whispers, and for a moment Jack thinks he might cry.

Surprised, relieved, exhausted, the doctor smiles back. "Missed you too."

---

A moment later Sawyer tilts his head to one side with a sudden, cheeky grin and the words, "How about we skip the food for now?" Jack laughs, teasing, "In favour of what?" He grins as the blond wraps strong arms around his hips and easily picks him up.

"You," Sawyer admonishes as Jack wraps his legs around his waist and holds on, "Are far too damn light." The doctor gives a snort of distain and lets his companion carry him over to the bed and set him down gently, straddling his hips, brushing sharp teeth against the warm skin of his lower lip so Jack gasps.

Closing his eyes, he lets Sawyer's hands, still tanned and calloused and absurdly gentle, undo all the buttons of his shirt and trace feather-light circles over his chest and map out the line of his jaw and the curve of his shoulder and the ridge of his hipbones. He lets the man kiss along his throat and each protruding rib and pretends he doesn't hear him sigh at just how far his bones jut out now, clearly visible under taut skin, and he lets him undress them both fully, slowly, carefully, and opens his eyes as he intertwines their hands.

"Can I...?" Sawyer whispers, that light twinkling in his eyes, and Jack pauses, tenses... nods.

He breathes in the man's smile and the wrinkles around his eyes and his thumb stroking the inside of his wrist, and he melts into those lips and that kiss and the almost-forgotten feeling that he's safe and wanted and loved.

Jack murmurs the word 'James' into his lover's mouth and he lets his eyes flutter shut and he lets himself get lost.

---

Afterwards, they lie curled together with Jack in Sawyer's arms and one calloused thumb still stroking the inside of his wrist and the stars shining brighter through the window than he's seen them in a year. Sawyer nuzzles his head into the curve of his shoulder and strokes his free hand along the muscles of the doctor's stomach and asks very quietly what's wrong when he feels them trembling.

"We should've never left." Jack whispers, tearful certainty shining through his exhaustion, "We should've never left." And Sawyer holds him close and strokes his hair and kisses the tears away, but he never disagrees.

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